


Concatenation

by trascendenza



Category: Psych
Genre: BDSM, M/M, POV Character of Color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus and Shawn create a new pattern. <em>But as off-kilter as he was, some instincts never went away.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Concatenation

**Author's Note:**

> D/s overtones.

_2006._

The text woke him immediately. He'd set a special alert sound for texts from Shawn -- an incredibly loud honking sound that was reminiscent of a fire engine -- and in the past couple years it'd become hardwired so deeply into his brain that even at 4AM that he didn't need to fully open his eyes to know that something was going on.

Switching on the light at his nightstand, he flipped his phone open and read.

_crnr of 12th n frgusn. cm qckly. brng a twl &amp; pnts._

Gus tossed the blanket off and swung out of bed, already trying to decide whether he should grab sweatpants or jeans, depending on the weather outside and what Shawn might need them for.

*

There were a lot of things on the tip of Gus' tongue, almost all of them involving the words "hell," "what," and "Shawn."

But there was something in Shawn's face, his posture -- he wasn't quite making eye contact with Gus, wasn't focusing on anything in front of him, an odd half-smile stuck on his face like it was frozen. Gus felt strangely exposed looking at Shawn even though he was the one fully clothed and not restrained; he felt like he was seeing something it wasn't okay to see, something that settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone and disrupted his whole equilibrium.

But as off-kilter as he was, some instincts never went away.

He tossed the blanket he'd had the foresight to bring over Shawn, kneeling down. He picked up Shawn's cell phone, which must have fallen after Shawn sent the text, and slipped it into his pocket.

He kept his voice quiet. "How do I--?"

Shawn jerked his head mechanically to the left, and Gus walked low to the ground, knees bent, squinting in the dim glow of the park lights. Three feet later, right on the border between the gravel and the grass, he found the glint of a small, silver key.

Something unfurled inside his chest, and picking it up, he let out the breath he'd been holding since he'd looked at the clock and thought to himself _please let him be okay._

Hands shaking slightly, he let Shawn out of the cuffs. (They were shiny, almost new looking, and Gus tried not to think about where they'd come from, tried not to mentally rattle off the list of every possibility for how they'd ended up around Shawn's wrists at 4AM on a Tuesday morning in Alameda Park six hundred feet from the nearest public entrance that police regularly patrolled.) He held out the pants he'd been keeping draped over his shoulder, a pair of loose, comfortable sweats he knew fit Shawn because Shawn had slept over during their last movie night, curled up on Gus' couch in those pants and an oversized blue Harry's Home Cooking t-shirt.

He'd opted for comfort, in the end, and when Shawn, now clothed from the waist down, picked the blanket up from the ground and wrapped it around his shoulders with a grateful three-quarters smile, Gus had never been so glad for the emergency kit he kept in his car.

*

He didn't say anything when he drove Shawn home, or when he brewed Shawn a hot cup of cocoa, or when he sat on Shawn's bed, watching, waiting until Shawn was under the covers. His eyes felt dry, like he was afraid to close them, and he wondered if this was how Shawn always felt -- like if he blinked he might miss something vital.

Shawn put on an oversized black Pantera t-shirt and crawled under the thick blankets.

"You're the best, Gus," Shawn said quietly. He looked at Gus, for a brief moment, a sort of _thank you for not asking_ and _I know this is confusing_. Then he dropped his head onto the plethora of pillows, closing his eyes. His face looked strangely peaceful, the way Gus remembered from the few times he'd seen Shawn smoke pot -- forehead smoothing, lips going slack, limbs curling in gently.

There were a lot of things on the tip of Gus' tongue, almost all of them involving the words "always," "why," and "Shawn." He didn't say any of them, instead getting up and switching off the light. He let himself out and drove back home, because somehow he knew that what had happened tonight couldn't last past morning.

*

He wasn't surprised when things were business as usual at the office the next day.

"Dude, have you tried these booby things?" Shawn asked, inhaling his drink through the oversized straw with an expression of total awe on his face. "This tapioca is like the size of _Godzilla_."

"It's called boba, Shawn," Gus said, sending up a silent prayer that Shawn hadn't gone to his favorite café and tried to order with his annoying and offensive mispronunciations of romanized Chinese. "And tried it? Please. I can name you every flavor of milk tea served in the greater Santa Barbara region."

He was about to pull out his rewards card from The Little Pearl -- he was two drinks away from getting a free one -- but Shawn underestimated his vacuum power and started choking on tapioca. Gus smoothly stepped in to Heimlich, and steadfastly did not stare at Shawn's wrists (which were slightly bruised, but only if you were looking for it).

*

Here was the thing.

Gus got that they weren't talking about it. He even respected it, on some level -- when Shawn was ready to talk, Gus was here to listen. That was fine.

But not talking about it didn't mean that Gus wasn't _thinking_ about it. A lot. Nearly non-stop since it had happened, and with the sort of compulsive fixation that he usually reserved for important things, like words he'd just discovered he was chronically misspelling or re-organizing his mineral collection from the ground up, switching over from categorization by scientific name to the more logical structure of grouping by elemental composition.

He just kept turning it over and over in his mind, like a strange Aramaic-rooted word that wouldn't click, or ambiguous content that refused to fall neatly into a hierarchical system because it wouldn't properly slot into any of the general parent categories. Shawn, his skin damp from early morning air, shoulder against the bench, his knees and feet smeared with mud, hair mussed, lips swollen, like they'd been bitten, like Shawn had been --

Gus leaned back in his chair, sighing. He hoped Shawn was hurrying up with their purchases from the horchata guy, because God knew, he needed the distraction right now.

*

_2007._

At 3AM, Gus flipped open his phone and read an address and two words.

_pls cm._

He tossed the blanket aside and swung his feet to the floor, not even needing to think about what he was going to bring -- he had everything he needed in the car, packed and folded in a duffel bag, always ready. It hadn't been opened since he'd put it together nine months ago, but even if he didn't admit it to himself, he'd had a feeling it was just a matter of time.

*

Gus' questions had changed with time, and were now more along the lines of _how long_, _who_ and _why me?_ But he didn't ask, and Shawn didn't answer, nonverbally or otherwise. (Sometimes Gus thought he knew the answers, especially to the last one. It was easier to pretend he didn't, that if he didn't ask and if Shawn didn't say, it was safer -- a barrier, a protection.)

He found the key before he'd reached Shawn, wedged between two rocks, like someone had stuck it there for safekeeping. This time, Shawn watched him, eyes tracking Gus' every move like a camera, the action completely one-sided -- all of it going in without any reaction on Shawn's part.

He clicked the key with a hard flick of his wrist and eased the metal off, brushing his thumb over the bone of Shawn's wrist.

Shawn's eyes flickered, briefly, a glitch in the picture. Gus stood up and held out the sweatpants and a green oversized Velma's Diner t-shirt.

When they got to his car, he poured a bottle of water over Shawn's dirt-caked feet and offered up a pair of pristine white socks and tennis shoes. Shawn took them with something like surprise, like he hadn't been expecting this and never would have thought to ask.

"Wow, thanks," he said, and Gus shrugged, _you know, no big deal_, even though his shoulders and eyes were lying and all he'd done for the last nine months was try to anticipate all the things Shawn needed but would never ask for.

*

Shawn wasn't even all the way under the blankets before he was out, one knee curled up to his chest and his hands under his cheek. Gus tucked them in around him, careful not to touch any exposed skin, though he wasn't sure who he was doing it for, himself or Shawn.

*

"Welcome to the Official Commencement of All Mexican, All the Time! Month." Shawn said grandly, hands extended in a manner reminiscent of a circus ringmaster. There were enchiladas, quesadillas, burritos and tamales covering nearly every available square inch of both of their desks.

"Dude," Gus said, evaluating the excess of food with a slight twinge for the dent it must have made in his credit card, "I told you yesterday -- and the day before, and the day before that -- that this was a terrible idea."

"I'm sorry, I must not have heard you over the _sheer amazing_ of my plan, because, hello? All Mexican, All the Time! There is nothing not genius about this idea."

"No, Shawn. You do whatever you want, but there are not enough lactose medications in the world that will get me through thirty days of dairy-laden Mexican cuisine. Quatro quesos dos fritos every now and then is one thing, but this --"

"Gus," Shawn interrupted, smiling slightly and shaking his head. "Buddy. Do you really think so little of me?" He pointed at Gus' desk. "Go on. Take a look."

Gus leaned over the nearest foil-wrapped burrito.

"Sin queso y crema," he read, and then blinked, looking back at Shawn. "They're all--?"

Shawn nodded. "They're all labeled, so we can't get them mixed up." He smiled brightly. "Extra guac and salsa, just the way you like them."

Gus inahled. He could smell the chicken, tomatoes, avocado, cilantro, onion (and the slighter hints of cumin, chipotle, and habanero). "Oh my God," he said when the full force of the smells hit him, his stomach growling responsively. "These are from Mi Pueblo, aren't they?"

"Got it in one," Shawn said, flinging his arm around Gus' shoulder, crackling with excitement.

"Fine," Gus said, clinging to a little bit of a frown, because it never did to give in too easily. "But just for today, okay?"

"¡Sí, señor!" Shawn said in his El Pollo Loco accent.

Gus jostled him, rolling his eyes, and felt Shawn's wrist against his shoulder like a weight that wasn't too heavy, but just right.

*

The other thing about Gus was that once he began noticing something, he couldn't _un_-notice it.

He'd always been amazed at Shawn's observational skills, but that was in part because it was so all-encompassing and purposelessly specific. He couldn't wrap his head around the way Shawn drew out the big picture from random data, like stringing together bits of yarn to produce a garment without going to the trouble of knitting.

Gus, on the other hand, operated thematically, honing in on details that fit within the larger pattern and diligently slotting every new piece of information into it, adding bit by bit every day, stitching it together one row at a time. Where Shawn was freeform, he was linear, and he specialized in noting trends over time.

He didn't have anything close to eidetic memory, but he never would have maintained his lifetime four-point-oh GPA without the ability to memorize and, sometimes, it was nearly second nature. Lately, he'd found himself wishing he could find the switch in his brain that would turn it off.

Because he couldn't look at anything the same way, anymore, and there was nowhere he could turn to get away from it.

At the station, he saw the way Shawn's eyes sometimes lingered when Lassiter was hauling off suspects, his neck muscles jumping like he was subtly swallowing. He saw the way Shawn's arms turned outwards, like he unconsciously wanted to offer them.

At the office, he saw the way that Shawn's personality would go through a kind of rollercoaster, his levels of extroversion swelling and receding to some inner tide only Shawn felt.

It would build up, slowly, over time -- one week, he'd be high energy, the next he'd verge on annoying, and by the third, he'd be full-on manic, talking non-stop and jittering like there was pressure under his skin seeking an outlet. He'd fight with Lassiter at the drop of a hat, following Juliet around with a thousand annoying questions, drop into the Chief's office even after she'd told him to get out three times in the last hour already.

Then, inevitably -- Gus had started to recognize when the night was coming, the way you sometimes just knew it was going to start raining while you slept -- Shawn would disappear. No explanation, no excuses, just "nah, can't hang tonight," and Gus always slept with his phone in his hand, duffel bag at the foot of his bed. But most times, Shawn just came in the next day, his limbs oddly loose and lazy, his entire body giving off the impression of a relaxed smile.

He exuded something else, too, something that Gus had a harder time pinning down -- relief, maybe, or like something that had been out of place was clicked back in.

And Gus didn't look at Shawn's joints or his lips or the marks that were always right along the hem of his shirts, visible when he shifted just the right way. (But when he bent back in his chair, head flung out and neck stretched in a curved line, Gus almost felt like Shawn wanted him to see, the necklace of bruises slipping out from under the fabric and into the light, entirely too visible, entirely too present.)

The worst, by far, was at home, where Gus would look at himself in the mirror and notice a whole host of things he wished he could forget as soon as they rose to the surface, because the truth was, most days, he was still twelve years old and trying to figure out why his stomach twisted when he pinned Shawn to the ground, grinding his wrists into the mud.

*

_2008._

Gus was awake at 2AM, one hand on his steering wheel, the other on his phone. He clicked "read" as soon as it came through, and this time, there was only one word.

_pls._

He turned the key in the ignition, breathing out a silent _finally_. He hadn't been able to sleep for almost two weeks, because now when June came the heat of it sunk deep under his skin, filling him up with an energy he had no idea how to dissipate.

*

"Shawn," Gus said, dropping the duffel bag, because Shawn was sitting at the bench and didn't need anything he'd brought. His gut churned and he wanted to turn and walk right back to his car, because this was still too new to be changing the rules on him already, he didn't care if that was Shawn's thing, there was only so much he could take and this had never been particularly easy or clear and it didn't come anywhere _near_ slotting neatly into the larger schema that formed the bedrock of Gus' reality.

But then Shawn turned to look at him, worrying at the nail of his thumb, one knee brought up to his chest and his eyes a little too wide and open.

"Gus," he said quietly, "Gus, I'm sorry."

Gus was pulled forward without even realizing he'd moved, covering the distance between them in three long strides. He looked down at Shawn, hand reaching out automatically, resting on the side of Shawn's neck.

"Don't," Gus said, thumb pressing into Shawn's pulse point. "Not with me, Shawn. That's not how it's gonna be."

He felt Shawn's exhale, and his face dropped, chin brushing the inside of Gus' arm. "Okay. Okay."

"Get off the bench," Gus said, and he had no idea where it came from, but it was the same thing that had brought him here even when he was afraid of what he might find, the same thing that had kept him over Shawn's bedside, examining Shawn's face while he slept, as if Gus could take him apart piece by piece, laying each one out until the entire picture made sense.

And when Shawn dropped to his knees, something inside Gus clicked into place, the last in a concatenation of events that reached a tipping point, revealing the underlying functional paradigm that had been there all along.

"That's good," he said, and tilted Shawn's face up to him, and the trust he saw there was frightening and exhilarating and so incredibly familiar.

*

He held the bottom of the oversized yellow Annie's Eatery t-shirt open and Shawn poked his head up through it, eyes already half-closed, sweatpants drooping on his hips.

"Lie down," Gus said, smacking him lightly on the ass. Shawn gave him a flippant smile and hip wiggle, but did exactly that, snaking under the covers and gathering them all around him like he was the eye around which the hurricane of blankets were intended to gather.

Gus watched him for a few minutes, seeing the way Shawn's limbs didn't need to curl in tight, how they just splayed everywhere. He walked around the edge of the bed, running his palm lightly over Shawn's outline, solidifying it, pressing down when Shawn arched up to meet his touch.

"Uh-uh," he said, and climbed in next to Shawn, lining up against Shawn's back. "Time to sleep."

Shawn hummed, scooting back into Gus' arms, burying his face in the nest of pillows with a loud exhale. Gus rested his palm on Shawn's chest, feeling him breathe, at first shallow and quick, then deep and steady. He held it there until Shawn fell asleep.


End file.
